A Bed of Ribbons

I walked back through the front door from the garden as dusk deepened into full dark, my boots carrying a quiet dust across the threshold. In the corner by the low armchair, an open wicker basket had tipped slightly on its side, spilling coils of ribbed grosgrain and velvet trim onto the dark wood floor. I approached deliberately, stepping over a loop of deep plum satin. Kneeling down, I gathered a loose fold of dusty-rose herringbone cotton ribbon between my hands. It was supple and heavy. I leaned back into the curve of the fallen basket, wrapping the soft lengths loosely over my knees to rest for the night.